Magical Thinking
by flashwitch
Summary: Coulson has been back from the dead for a whole week, and he still hasn't talked to Clint. Not about what's important anyway. He needs to, he knows he needs to. But he's not sure he can. Follows on from 'Dying Really Screws Up Your Routine'.
1. Chapter 1

**Follows on from 'Dying really screws up your routine'. I'm not as happy with this one, so any constructive criticism would be very welcome. **  
**Warning, may trigger: mental health issues, issues with food. **  
**I know very little about OCD, although Google has taught me some. I do know a little about issues with food though. Please let me know if I get something glaringly wrong.**

* * *

He's been alive again for a whole week, and everything was still wrong. Coulson sighs. His routine isn't back on track, and he doesn't even have the regularity of the hospital to fall back on. Clint keeps looking at him like he's going to break, or disappear, or something. He's trying, he is, but everything is wrong, and he can't get control. Something needs to change.

* * *

This, Phil thinks, is how he would start if-when- he tells Clint.

It's a gift. And a curse. And Clint will laugh and say 'I understood that reference', and Phil will be able to...

No. Maybe not.

* * *

OCD, he'll say instead, is superstition taken to the extreme. And Clint will ask what the hell that's supposed to mean. And why are you talking about OCD anyway, sir?

Again, no. It's not right.

* * *

Maybe he could just make a file and leave it out. List the general effects of OCD and the medications for it. Clint would read it, because Clint can never keep his nose out. But then Clint would be on the offensive, asking questions from the get go.

* * *

Or what about approaching it like a briefing. He could make a powerpoint, with colour coded, informative slides, and accompanying files.

That might be easiest, he thinks with a rueful smile, but it wouldn't really make Clint feel at ease.

* * *

Maybe he'll start with his family. His Navy father with the alcohol problem who was hardly ever home. The mother who strove for perfection, because if it looked right then it was right. No one would see the cracks down below if the surface was neat and polished. He knows that's part of why he is how he is, even if they do say there's a genetic element.

But that's hard to talk about. Especially because talking about, thinking about, back then makes him feel like the weak little boy who couldn't even breathe properly. He's not weak. He's Phil Fucking Coulson and he's killed a man with his right thumb.

* * *

He needed to tell him. This was getting ridiculous and the longer he leaves it, the more upset Clint will be.

He's Phil Fucking Coulson, and he can do this. Maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

Coulson paces back and forth in the bathroom, trying to control the panic, and thinking of all the different things he could say. It takes 12 steps to get from one end to the other, but Phil only walks ten of them. Ten one way, ten the other. He chews his lower lip. It shouldn't be this hard. He's Phil Fucking Coulson. He's not weak. He didn't have a near death experience, Death had a near Phil experience.

Is it pathetic that the only things he's scared of are part of him?

"Phil, you alright in there?" Clint's noticed he's been acting strange, of course he has. But so far he's been good about it, not pushing. He thinks it's because of Loki, and he doesn't ask. But soon, he will. He'll ask, and Phil will have to answer.

"Yeah, one minute!" Phil taps out Clint's name against his leg once, twice, ten times, and then goes to the door. He takes a deep breath and taps against the doorknob five times before he turns it.

* * *

Phil steps out into the bedroom, favouring his bad leg.

"We need to talk." He's annoyed at himself as soon as he says it. 'We need to talk'? Really? That's not ominous at all.

"Alright?" Clint looks confused and worried, and Phil immediately feels bad. "What's wrong?"

Phil takes Clint's hand and they sit down on the edge of their bed. It's too big and too soft, but Tony chose it, so that's not really surprising. He gave them a whole floor in the Tower and Phil's fingers are itching to make it a home.

"Magical thinking," Coulson says and then flinches. That was an even worse beginning than the ones he'd come up with in the bathroom.

"What about it?" Clint asks after a moment, and that's why Phil loves him. He never treats anything he says as stupid.

"Do you know what it is?"

"I think so. Isn't it when kids refuse to step on cracks because they think that they'll actually break their mother's backs?" Clint says it like it's a joke, and to him, it is. Phil can't stop a flinch.

"That's... not exactly how I would put it, but yes. Sort of."

"Why are we talking about it?"

"I know you've noticed. I mean, you haven't said anything. But I've noticed you noticing." His fingers start tapping on his thigh and he forces them to stop. He should be able to control this. "I know you've seen how I've been acting since I came back. I know you think it's weird."

"Phil... what's going on?" Clint shouldn't sound that upset, not because of him. He's already hurt Clint too much. The six months he was gone, Clint had lost weight and hardly slept and he was still having trouble believing that Phil was real.

"Magical thinking. It's a belief, however irrational, that by doing something then something good will happen. Or that if you don't do something, something bad will happen." He pauses, and his lower lip finds its way between his teeth. "Like the sportsman who wears the same socks for every game because he was wearing them when they won. And no matter how many times they lose, he still wears the socks and thinks that he'll win. And when they do finally win again, he says 'ha! I was right'. That's magical thinking."

"Okay..." He can hear Clint thinking, figuring, trying to see what's going on.

"OCD is like that." Coulson swallows hard. This is taking more courage than confronting Loki did. "It's like... you know that you're being irrational. You know that eating 23 peas instead of 25 won't actually cause the world to end, but you still feel like it will. You know that it doesn't actually matter if you get your suit dirty but you still spend hours trying to get the stains out so that you can feel safe. You even know that tapping Morse Code on your leg won't make anything happen, but you still do it. Just in case."

"Coulson, seriously. What the fuck is going on?" Clint wraps his arm around Phil. "Talk to me, sir."

"I had it under control. I haven't needed medication for years. I swear. I still needed routines, but I wasn't... I'm not crazy." He pulls away a little, and immediately wishes he'd stayed wrapped up in Clint's embrace. "But since I woke up, I've been having... issues. Worse than I've had it in years. I'm trying, but..."

"I... you've had this the whole time we've been together?"

"Yes."

"You didn't tell me."

"I had it under control. It wasn't relevant."

"You didn't tell me."

"No. I'm sorry." Phil pulls the cool and control of Agent Coulson around him like armour as Clint pulls away, his tone cold.

"I need some space. To think about this."

"Of course. I'll sleep in one of the guest rooms if you like."

Clint looks surprised at that, and runs a hand through his hair. He stands up, putting more space between them. Phil resists the urge to reach out.

"I just. I need to thing. I'm sorry, I know this isn't..."

"No. I understand."

* * *

Phil watches Clint walk out. He pretends it doesn't matter. He's Phil Fucking Coulson. He doesn't need anybody.

Clint sees better from a distance, Phil knows this. Hopefully, he'll come back when he sees what he needs to see.

He'll come back.

He has to.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil tidies up their bedroom and gathers up the things he'll need for a few nights away from Clint. He considers taking some of the Captain America memorabillia stacked on the shelves. It would help make him feel more... level. But it would also feel to final. He leaves it, except for the Captain America plushie that Clint had bought him as a joke when they started dating. It's not pristine as most of the Cap stuff is, but it is well loved.

He takes it with him.

* * *

He feels strangely calm as he collects his belongings and moves to the guest room. He hangs up some suits in his closet, even though he isn't going to be going into SHIELD for a while. He might not even be going in at all. Trust is important between handler and assets. That's why Nick had taken the heat for his fake death. If Clint doesn't trust him, The Avengers won't trust him either. He'll resign from SHIELD if that happens.

He goes through to the bathroom and puts his toiletries away. It isn't until he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror that he realises he's chewed a hole in his lower lip. There's blood running down his chin. Quite a lot of blood actually. But he can't stop chewing. He locks the bathroom door and climbs into the bathtub. He taps out S.O.S and Mayday against the porcelain, again and again. The Captain America Plush smells like Clint and he presses it against his cheek. He shouldn't be this far out of control.

He counts the tiles on the floor, walls and ceiling. There's 86. That bothers him. He counts again. And again.

And again.

And again.

He loses himself in the action, counting and recounting while his fingers tap and his teeth gouge into his lower lip.

* * *

He becomes aware again when JARVIS calls him with a message from the team. Dinner. He is expected. Phil is once again grateful that JARVIS doesn't have cameras in their private quarters.

"Thank you, JARVIS. I'll be there."

He measures the passage of time by the stiffness of his body. Several hours, he thinks. Especially since he knows it was mid-morning when he talked to Clint.

He hasn't had a full disassociation like that in years. It's like an out of body experience, getting trapped in the repetition and losing himself. He cleans the blood from his face and neck. He's got some on the collar of his shirt. He'll have to change. Maybe he'll burn this suit. Blood never comes out, but his fingers itch to scrub it. He strips and folds his clothes neatly. The bite marks on his lip are painfully obvious. They are also just plain painful.

He gets dressed. A new shirt, a new suit, a new tie. He is careful with his appearance, even though he's only going as far as the communal dining area. It isn't about them. It's about him. He needs the feel of a properly tied tie around his neck, the stiffness of the suit surrounding him. He'd hated his time in the hospital, being forced to wear a gown or, at best, scrubs.

Little Cap gets tucked in on his pillow, although it's almost physically painful to leave him there.

* * *

Bruce has made curry. The others are already there. There's no need to be nervous. They've done this every day since he came back from the dead. Eaten together at dinner.

He's Phil Fucking Coulson. He can sit and eat dinner like a goddamn adult. He's not going to run from this. His leg is even less cooperative than usual from his time in the tub, and his left shoulder aches, along with his back.

He sits down in his usual seat and keeps his head up. Clint looks at him, worriedly, but then turns away. That's okay. It's no more than he expected.

He gets some rice and meat on his fork and lifts it towards his mouth. But he can't eat it. He can't. He doesn't know how many pieces of chicken there are. He doesn't know which spices went in and in what order. He doesn't know how much his portion of rice weighs. He lowers the fork back to his plate and takes a deep breath. This is ridiculous. He's better than this. Stronger than this. It isn't right that Clint's disapproval hurts this much. He tries again. Just rice this time. Rice is safe. It's almost at his mouth when he gets a flash of maggots writhing on his fork.

His father, when he was home, used to make him finish his meals, no matter how big they were or how long it took him. Even foods he found disgusting, he was forced to eat. But he also got locked in his room for being greedy and his mother would take his food away if she decided he was eating too fast 'like a pig', she'd said. He isn't stupid, he knows where his issues come from. But that doesn't really help.

He swallows harshly and looks away. He can't do that. He knows the food is safe. He knows it's probably delicious. He's eaten curry before and nothing bad had happened. And he's already seen evidence that Clint is an excellent chef. But he just can't force himself. He can feel his stomach rebelling at just the thought of eating right now.

"If you'll excuse me." He stands up and takes the plate into the adjoining kitchen to dispose of the refuse.

"You didn't eat anything," Steve's voice comes from behind him.

"I'm not hungry." He turns to Bruce. "Thank you for the thought though. It smelled delicious."

"Are you alright? You're not getting sick, are you? You can't get sick, you've only just gotten better." Tony's voice was fast and loud, and Coulson closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"I'm fine," he lies. He doesn't look at Clint as he leaves the room.


	4. Chapter 4

He paces back and forth in the guest room, talking quietly to himself. Ten steps forward, ten steps back.

"It's okay. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. It's okay. Clint loves us. He does. He loves me. He does. He loves me. He won't leave over this. Not after everything. It's okay." He starts to bite down on his lip but flinches. It's raw and bloody, and chewing on it is not as comforting as he thinks it should be. He takes the meat of his cheek between his molars instead. It doesn't feel right. He walks faster.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. It's okay. It's okay."

* * *

It's precisely 35 minutes later and 210 sets of steps that Clint comes in. Phil barely even looks at him. He just keeps walking the floor. He has Little Cap in his right hand, tapping against his leg with every step.

"Are you alright?" Clint looks bashful, with his hands in his pockets. Phil stops and looks at him, then speaks.

"No. I can honestly say that alright is not what I am right now. Alright is not even close. I can- I was better, before. I can get better again. I can." He turns away and starts pacing again.

"Hey, easy." Clint puts up his hands like he's trying to calm a wild animal. Coulson remembers using that tone and holding his hands up like that to Clint, but this is the first time Clint's had to do it for him.

"Don't touch me."

"I don't know what to do here, sir. I'm flying blind."

"I... I just need to- give me a minute?"

"Of course." Clint goes to sit on the edge of the bed, and Phil stops walking, sways and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. Clint had come back. He wanted to talk. To make things better. It was too much.

He needed to breathe.

"I'm sorry."

"No." Clint shakes his head and reaches out, to touch, before he stops himself. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have walked out on you earlier. I see better from a distance, you know that. I just needed some space to think. I'm not angry. I'm not upset. I'm... confused, I guess. You always seemed so put together. This is the first time I've ever seen you afraid. It scared me."

"I'm still sorry. I should have been more open with you."

"No, I get why you wouldn't want to talk about it. It's just..." Clint runs a frustrated hand through his hair, and sighs. "You're always so in control. I don't get it."

"I am always so in control. That's the point. I have to be so in control, or I stop eating and end up just sitting in my room counting things. I'll get it back under control. I have to. I just wanted you to understand that I hadn't just suddenly lost my mind."

This time when Clint reaches for Phil, Phil let's himself be pulled down to the bed. Clint wraps his arms around him, and rests his head on Phil's shoulder.

"Whatever you need. I'm here." And apparently, that's exactly what Phil needs to hear. The tension just drains out of him, leaving him exhausted.

"Sleep. I need sleep."

"Okay." Clint unties Phil's tie and put it on the bed beside him. Then he begins unbuttoning Phil's shirt.

"Fold them," Phil murmurs, the stress of the day getting to him, making him drowsy.

"Of course," Clint smiles. He finishes stripping Phil (who lies like a doll and let him, eyes closed), and then moves onto his own clothes. He folds them all neatly and put them on the armchair by the bed. Then he pulls back the sheets and adjusts Phil so he was lying on his back on the left side of the bed, the way he prefers, and then climbs in beside him. He lies on his side, facing Phil, and his hand comes to rest on the scar from Loki's staff.

"I love you, you know?"

"'m sleeping, Barton."

"Sure. I'll tell you again in the morning."

* * *

He's Phil Fucking Coulson and he's in love. He's in control. He's strong enough.


End file.
